


He Remembered

by OneTriesToWrite



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:35:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22691890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneTriesToWrite/pseuds/OneTriesToWrite
Summary: William Schofield always had a recurring nightmare. He could remember it each time he woke up. The more he thought about it, the more real it felt. Unlike a dream, but more like a memory. Memory of a life he never knew he had.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 18
Kudos: 133





	He Remembered

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished watching 1917 yesterday and now I had to get it out of my system. I refuse to give in to the angst so here, have some poor attempt of reincarnation!AU

He remembered walking.

He remembered walking til his feet sore, til his lungs gave out, but he kept walking, as if he’d die if he dared to stop.

He remembered running.

He remembered running across the battlefield, gunshots and explosions everywhere, men fighting and men dying, but even those weren’t enough to stop him.

He remembered hiding.

He remembered hiding in the darkness, in between ruins of what’s left of a town, his body trembling and his breath heaving, he couldn’t move, immobilized in fear, yet he couldn’t return, he refused to.

He remembered drowning.

He remembered drowning in the cold river, freezing water filling his lungs, the strong current dragging his weak and tired body, the useless struggle as he attempted to swim away, he remembered almost giving up when suddenly small white petals came to view.

And then he remembered _him_.

He remembered him, all smile and laugh, warm in his embrace, his hand hot in his grip, burning—blood, he was bleeding, he was crying, he was _dying_.

_“Put me down, you bastard!”_

_“You can start on without me. I’ll catch up.”_

_“Am I dying?”_

_“Will you write to my mum for me?”_

_“Tell me you know the way.”_

_Silence._

William Schofield gasped. He was awake. His body covered in sweat and his stomach churning. He stumbled his way to the bathroom and made it in time to reach the sink before he threw up his dinner. He coughed out the remaining content of his stomach and exhaled exasperatedly as he gazed at his reflection. He looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, sweats on his forehead, vomit on his chin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before finally splashing his face with running water. He sighed in relief as he could feel his senses coming back to him.

_That damn dream again_.

For as long as he could remember, William Schofield always had the same recurring nightmare. A nightmare full of blood and bodies, where gunshots and explosions and curling screams filled the air. He could remember it each time he woke up. The more he dreamt about it, the more real it felt. Unlike a dream, but more like a memory. Memory of a life he never knew he had.

He’d had it since he was young lad, and though the dream weren’t always exactly the same, it was like a continous story, and each time, he saw something different. Some day he was walking in trenches, jumping around, avoiding one dead body to another. Other day he was somewhere dark and smelled like death and was almost buried alive—but he was saved, by _him_.

And today he saw _him_ died in his arms.

Schofield didn’t know who _he_ was. The face was never clear, always blurry, sometimes covered by his tin hat, and he’d wake up before he had the chance to see it clearly. One thing he knew was that whoever the mysterious man was, he was someone important to him. Otherwise, why would he appear in his dream? Maybe it was someone from his past life. Schofield didn’t really believe in the concept of _reincarnation_ , but at this point, he was willing to consider any option he got.

Maybe a friend, a brother in arm, but this pain in his chest everytime he tried to remember the impossible told him it was something _more_.

His heart ached everytime he tried to remember, like opening an old wound.

A quiet whisper told him one night that the painful feeling was unrequited love, and he suddenly bursted in tears.

The wind blew and it sent shivers down his spine. It was the beginning of spring, but the cold winter wind still blew every now and then. Schofield would blame the global warming for messing up the season cycle like that.

William Schofield was making his way to the metro that day when on the corner of his eyes, he saw something that made his steps stop.

A small park. He’d walked past it countless time before during his commute, and never bat an eye—until today. There was _something_ in the air, something that made him feel like he just had to go there. No, it wasn’t the park, it was—

A white blossom landed on his shoulder.

“Cherries,” he muttered to himself. Those were the same old cherry trees he’d seen hundreds of time, but today, they felt different.

He glanced at his watch. April 6th, it wasn’t even 9 yet, but if he made a stop now, he’d be late for work.

Surprisingly, he didn’t care.

Schofield wasn’t the man who relied heavy on his instincts. He much preferred to stop and think, weighing his decisions before he does things. Always so calculating, always full of planning. Not to say he couldn’t be spontaneous every now and then, it’s just that everytime he was, it also took him by surprise.

Just like it was today.

He froze on his feet, his gaze locked on the blossoming cherry trees.

He inhaled deep before changing his direction and crossed the road towards the park.

Schofield walked aimlessly, he let his feet follow wherever the road went. The sky was blue and clear, with white cloud. A perfect day for a picnic, or a long walk.

He was strolling down the pavements when his instict, again, told him to take a path away from where the road was. He stopped to think for a second. He was feeling rather odd today, the longer he tried to think it over, the more this feeling in his stomach told him to just go, as if afraid he’d miss something, that he’d be late for something. He was already skipping work today, he didn’t have any important meeting or appointment to attend, as far as he knows, so what’s with this rush? He wondered to himself. But his legs, amazingly, moved themselves and so he decided that he wouldn’t fight against his hunch and just followed wherever his guts told him to.

Walking past a couple of more cherry trees, Schofield arrived near a bed of grass. Not far from him, a small hill, on top of it, a single, lonely, tree.

It wasn’t a cherry tree. Schofield didn’t know what tree it was, he wasn’t a botanist. He didn’t care what tree it was to begin with anyway. He made his way up the hill, across the bed of grass, and stood next to the lonely tree. He stared at it for a second, trying to assess why he was so obsessed with getting there, and why he felt so calm here. He’d never felt so calm before, he felt so _complete_ , but something still stirred his stomach. Like he was complete, but not quite, something was still amiss.

He bent down and placed his bag by his foot while he sat down, leaning his back on the tree, gazing at the wide bed of grass from up the hill. He closed his eyes, he let the wind breeze brushed off his face. It felt good, slightly nostalgic. The wind was close to lulling him to sleep when a voice jolted him awake.

“Is this seat taken?”

Schofield opened his eyes and looked up to see the source of the voice. The air closed in around him, it felt hard for him just to breath. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing with his eyes.

It was a man.

No.

It was _him_.

The man in his dream.

He’d recognize those blue eyes any time. That figure, that brown dark hair, that face, and most especially, that _smile_.

“Yeah,” Schofield finally had said after staring at the man far too long than appopriate. He scooted a bit, giving some space for the man to sit right next to him and suddenly he felt like a fourth grader sitting next to his crush.

_Wait, what?_

The man, who now Schofield realized was a bit shorter than him, made himself comfortable not too far from him. His eyes gazed on the far beyond. “Quite the view, huh?” he asked him. “I found this place by accident, nobody goes to this part—or at least I thought so, guess now I have to share it with you,” he chuckled. Schofield didn’t reply, he couldn’t, not when he was too hypnotized by the view next to him.

The man was real, he was alive, and he was only a few inches from him. This wasn’t a dream, Schofield knew, because his dreams, although they always felt real, had never felt _this_ real.

That, and in his dreams, both he and the man were always wearing uniforms, fully equipped with their tin hats and backpacks and guns. They weren’t now. Schofield was wearing his light blue dress shirt and black trousers while the other man was dressed much more casually, donned in grey t-shirt and jeans.

Schofield couldn’t help but to steal glances at the man. Then he realized, on top of his brunette hair, a white blossom. He held a laugh and coughed loud, attempting to get his interest. “Your hair,” he said, “There’s...”

“Oh,” the man scoffed, running his hand through his short dark hair. He picked one white small petal and stared at it, longing in his eyes.

“Cherries,” he said before letting the wind blow the petal away. “Lamberts. Might be Dukes. Hard to tell when they aren’t in fruit,” he added.

Schofield was about to choke. He knew this conversation. Everything felt so hauntingly _familiar_ before him. Like he’d done this before. Countless time, in fact.

“Most people think there’s only one type,” the man continued, unaware of Schofield’s expression. “But there’s lots of them. Cuthberts, Queen Annes...”

“Montmorencys.” Schofield somehow found himself blurting out the word.

“Yeah,” the shorter man blinked. “How’d you know?”

_Because you’d told me_.

Schofield didn’t say that one out loud. He knew he’d sound like a lunatic if he did. “I just do, I always do.” He resorted to lying, well, he wasn’t exactly _lying_ , was he? He just _avoided_ to tell the truth, there’s a subtle difference. The man furrowed his brows to his answer, but before he had a chance to say a word, Schofield cut him. “How about you, why would you know that?” The man beamed to Schofield’s question, but at that point, Schofield didn’t even bother to listen to his answer and his story.

Because he knew already.

He knew about the family orchard. About how at this time of year, the blossom would make it look like it’s been snowing. About how in May, he and his brother would pick the fruits and it’d take them a whole day.

He knew.

He always knew.

He could even recite it all with perfection if he had to.

But he was too busy staring, mesmerizing, studying the features of the shorter man sitting next to him. The way the skin of the corner of his eyes creased everytime his lips curved into a smile. The way his hand gesture was so full of expression, moving erratically along with the story he was telling. And the rings on his fingers.

The _rings_.

He felt a pang in his chest whenever his eyes got the glimpse of those shiny bands.

No, not because it made him wonder if the other man was already married. It was because in his dream, he had never seen them so clean and bright. They were always dirty, full of mud and _blood_. Seeing them shining the way they were supposed to felt so odd—the _good_ kind of odd, the one where things were finally right after you’ve failed so many times.

_Ah yes_.

Things were finally right.

This was right.

Schofield played the dream on the back of his mind again. Not dream—memory. About the rings, about the man, about how he was sitting there leaning on a tree staring at the sky, holding onto those rings and a tag— _his_ tag.

A tag with the name, _Thomas Blake_ on it.

“Blake?” Schofield choked on the name, voice as quiet as a whisper, muffled by his breathing, but was still heard because the shorter man had paused his story. His eyes were on him, staring tentatively. “Yes?” he murmured.

_How do you know my name_ was what his eyes had said. Schofield shook his head, as if he was answering _I don’t know either_.

_I just do. I always do._

“Thomas Blake?” tear fell from the corner of his eye. He didn’t know why. It just did.

“Yes,” came the reply, low and wary, the man was still staring at him. Not with fear, but with wonder, amazement even. He gazed at Schofield, trying to recognize a familiar face.

Then realization dawned on him.

“William Schofield,” he gasped.

“Yes,” Schofield let the tears stream down his face. How odd, he was never one who’d let his emotions take control of him. But this time, just this time, he didn’t mind.

“Sco,” _he_ —Blake, mumbled. “It’s you,” he sighed. Schofield only nodded, unable to reply amid the running tears down his cheeks. The look on his face was of relief, one whereas a heavy burden had finally been lifted off his shoulders. “It’s _you_ ,” Blake said it again, this time with a smile curved on his face.

“It’s me,” Schofield tried not to choke on his own tears. He felt a touch on his hand. Blake. The touch turned to grip and Schofield was all too happy to return it. Their fingers intertwined.

“I’ve waited _so long_ ,” he gasped, “I’ve waited for _you_ for _so long_.”

Without missing a beat, Blake leaped forward to Schofield’s chest, wrapping his arm around the taller man’s waist, burying his face in his chest, sobbing.

“It’s okay,” Schofield sighed, patting the shorter man on the back before pulling him tight into his embrace. It felt so right, like he was born to do this.

“I’m _here_.”

And William Schofield had never felt that _complete_.


End file.
